The argument did not go as Robert had hoped; in the end it was as Edith said and, whatever tears may have been shed, none fell from Sybil's eyes. Cora, pale and exhausted, pleaded with him not to revisit the subject over dinner and generally he'd behaved but now, pacing in his room as O'Brien tended to Cora down the hall, he could not stop the waves of anger washing over him. Why it was even worse this evening than last. Edith and Mary had not only known that their younger sister was conducting an illicit relationship with the chauffeur, but they'd even known she planned to marry him. Marry him! My god, he could hardly stand to think of it. And then, just when he was certain the entire situation couldn't get any worse, Isobel Crawley had spoken up in Sybil's defense. Perhaps his mother had been right at the beginning to hold her at such arm's length. True, Matthew had quieted her, but the damage was done: everyone knew she would be an ally for Sybil.
Robert Crawley was a man of means and a man of action. He certainly did not intend to stand by and allow his family to be dragged into a scandal of such magnitude without a greater fight. He had attempted to threaten, persuade, and cajole his daughter. Failing that, he decided, he would simply buy his way out of this. Tom Branson was a poor chauffeur who longed to return to Ireland. Those were the facts and Robert had no doubt that with enough pounds in his pocket, this Mr. Branson could begin a new life in Ireland with nary another thought to Downton Abbey. He would see to that tomorrow.
The Robert Crawley who returned from the Grantham Arms was a shadow of the man who strode from his front door only a short while earlier. He had been certain, certain, as he made his way purposefully toward the small inn, that he could persuade Branson to see reason and, if that failed, that he could simply buy the man's acquiescence. Yet, not only had neither of these endeavors succeeded, but the chauffeur had called his bluff when Robert demanded he leave the village. For as much as it pained Robert to admit the fact, there could be no doubt that Sybil would have left that afternoon if he had banished the wretched man from town.
And then, no sooner had he crossed the threshold of his home than Isobel Crawley, whom he held personally responsibility for Sybil's descent into a decidedly middle-class worldview, was rushing at him with news that Cora was far worse than she had been when he left. Funny, he did not equate the words "not at all well" with "near to dying" and yet one look at her and any fool could see that his beloved Cora was half dead. His chest tightened as he pictured a life without her. No, it could not be. She must live. She must.
As the space around her buzzed with activity – wedding preparations, nursing duties, tea with the awful Mr. Bryant – Mary felt herself strangely detached from it all. She harbored great resentment toward Branson and she worried for her mother and Mr. Carson – and even Lavinia, she supposed – but it all seemed to be happening as if to someone else. She should have known of course, that Sir Richard would have ulterior motives for rushing to Downton as he did, but even her interactions with him were as if on another plane.
No, the only person she could truly see and feel at the moment was Anna. Sweet, brave Anna would finally marry her Mr. Bates, and she would do so with Mary's blessing. Yet, as Mary sent her off to join herself with a suspected murdered, she could not help but feel a twinge of sadness beneath her breast. Sybil was to marry a chauffeur and Anna was to marry a man who might yet be a murdered (she hoped not, of course, but facts were facts). Why could she have not been content to marry a solicitor and live her days in relative comfort at the side of the man she married? He loved her then and now and always, yet he would marry Lavinia and she Sir Richard and each would regret it for all their born days. If Edith had not called her to their mother's bedside at the moment, she would have lain down and cried. For the first time she recognized the true value of Sybil's nursing: it was nearly impossible to find time to pity yourself when you were busy attending to the sick and dying.
It would naturally be Sybil, then, who bore the news that Lavinia had taken a turn. And then she died. The shock of it, really, was nearly too much and they moved through the house as zombies, rarely – and barely – speaking to one another. For Sybil the days leading to the funeral passed in a blur. She had called Tom at the Grantham Arms to share the terrible news with him. She did not believe, she added, that she was likely to find an opportunity to visit him in the village before the funeral.
"You know how these things are," she said quietly, as their call ended. He did not know, no, not how these things were in the House of Grantham, and certainly not when the dead girl was the fiancée of the heir who was madly in love with the oldest daughter who was herself engaged to a man with the power to destroy her good name. There would be time to learn how these things were, however, so he simply agreed that he did and suggested he would see her at the church where he, too, would pay his respects to Lavinia Swire.